Macnair, Philosopher
by Deathofme
Summary: Executioner and victim take a moment of civility and discuss matters of the soul. "Why do you hope to save a people you do not understand, Charity?"


**A/N **I had so much fun with Macnair, I decided to write some more. Charity Burbage was killed at Malfoy Manor, and this is what happened before. Macnair discusses genocide, history and why wizards do not have philosophy.

Oh, and for anyone who majors in philosophy, econonmics, history or anthropology - I apologize. This fic holds by no means an expert opinion on any of the above subjects. Merely musings. And fiction.

**Warnings for torture, physical violence and lots of dialogue.**

MACNAIR, PHILOSOPHER

* * *

"Snap it."

"P – P – Please—"

"Snap it. Don't make me ask you again."

Sniffing back tears, her fingers shaking, she snaps her own wand cleanly in half. He can see the red-brown of dragon's heartstring poking out from the wood. He can see her eyes drop; for a witch to lose her wand is a difficult thing.

"That's a core I didn't expect from you, Burbage."

She doesn't say anything; she looks miserably at the remnants of her wand – now reduced to useless bits of polished wood.

He reaches forward to take the pieces from her, she flinches slightly, but his touch is light and fleeting. The pieces he tosses over his shoulder carelessly.

"Why are you crying, Charity? Do you mourn your magic so much?"

"Please… "

"That's hypocritical of you, don't you think? Don't you want to be closer to being muggle?"

Her eyes blaze. "You stupid purebloods, you twist everything – I wanted appreciation and unprejudiced treatment towards muggles, it has nothing—"

" —to do with you personally, I know."

Macnair smiles softly at her. "I know. I was just baiting you."

She stares at his friendly smile with incredulity and horror. The ease with which he speaks to her is an intimate intrusion she instantly backs away from.

"Would you like some tea?"

She shakes her head, her eyes wild and puffy from crying.

"Something stronger? I have some mead, or brandy if you'd like."

She croaks, "Why?"

Macnair shrugs, easing back into his chair and crossing his legs. His fingers come up to fondle the strap of the eye-patch covering the left side of his face.

"I like a little civility when entertaining a guest."

She spits, aiming for his face, but missing and hitting the chair instead.

"You monster!"

Macnair looks wryly about the room. The furniture has all been pushed to one wall, and there is blood and bits of her hair littering the floorboards. His various instruments are laid out neatly on the window-side table.

"Yes, our surroundings seem to suggest so… tell me, Chairty, have you ever read Blake?"

When she doesn't respond, he prompts her further, " 'Pity has a human heart, Mercy a human face.' No? Well, never mind."

He gets up and strides to the table. A tray with a decanter of mead and two glasses are set up on it. He pours healthy measures for the both of them, and sets one down beside her on the floor.

She eyes it suspiciously and is about to knock it over with her knee, until a large hand stops her. He gives her a warning look before releasing his hold on her knee and returning to his chair.

With a flick of his wand her bindings are released from her hands, and a second chair materializes behind her.

"Think about it this way, Charity… you are in this room with me. You do not have a wand. If you try and run out of this room, this house is filled to the brim with Death Eaters. You cannot defend yourself. If I want to exploit you or take advantage of you – I can. At any moment."

He leans in closer, gesturing with his hand for her to pick up her drink before continuing.

"So, when I extend a hand of civility and hospitality to you, maybe you should accept it. It may be the only respite you receive in all this."

Cautiously, she brings the glass up to her lips and takes a tiny sip. The mead is an expensive vintage, courtesy of Lucius, and instantly comforting to the taste. She chokes and splutters a little, the alcohol burning her already abused throat. She drinks some more though, so he knows she likes it.

"A monster, you called me."

"You are."

"I don't deny it. I just wonder from what sort of basis you're judging me."

"You – You _tortured_ me!"

"So, you're only judging me according to the restrictions of your personal episteme?"

"What— "

"Do you have a philosophical standpoint you can judge me from, any sort of definition you have for what constitutes someone as a monster? Tell me, I'm interested."

The drink in her hand shakes.

"Careful, you'll spill that."

"What games are you playing at?"

"Humour me, Charity, I'm trying to prove a point."

She begins to cry, her drink spilling over onto her robe sleeve. He takes the glass from her hand and sets it on the ground. His voice is patient and soothing.

"Stop crying, you'll dehydrate yourself and begin to feel dizzy."

She hiccoughs, but makes a visible effort to stifle her sobs. He nods, satisfied.

"Now, what sort of philosophy does your defining me as a monster fall under?"

"What philosophy? You hurt me, you dragged me to this horrible place, you – you believe in purity of blood and in exterminating a group of people. Genocide! _Genocide_!"

He nods, taking in all she says. Her anger starts to abate when she realizes he is listening to what she has said.

"Tell me what genocide is."

She looks at him contemptuously. "As if you don't know."

"Please tell me."

"It's the complete and utter annihilation of one group of people by another."

"Like the holocaust."

Her eyes widen and her voice is hushed, "How do you know about that?"

Macnair shrugs, "I've read books, _Mein Kampf. The Sunflower. Night_… Tell me, what do you think of the Armenian genocide?"

Charity gapes, her moth hanging open. She shakes her head silently; it is the first time Macnair frowns.

"The Turks' attempt to eradicate Armenian people – you don't know?"

She says nothing, afraid of how he will react. His eyes glitter darkly, but the storm cloud finally dissipates from his face.

"Genocide is the conflict of two institutions, the established threatened by, and subsequently eradicating the alternative."

"Whatever you say."

"Have you read Marx and Lenin?"

She shakes her head again. Macnair leaps off his chair and closes the distance between them, causing her to shriek. His voice is low and dangerous.

_"Why do you hope to save a people you do not understand?"_

She looks at him, eyes wide. "And _you_ understand them?"

"Better than you think."

She can do no more than breathe heavily through her nose, her chest heaving up and down. Fear constricts her throat as she is forced to look at Macnair in the eye, their faces centimeters apart. Their mead-saturated breath mingles.

Macnair frowns again, perhaps realizing her discomfort is bordering on dehabilitating, and retreats back to his seat.

"Marx and Lenin addressed this very conflict of institutions in _The Communist Manifesto_, the established being the bourgeois, and the alternative being the proletariat. I trust you are familiar with these terms?"

Charity nods.

"Of course, Marx and Lenin sided themselves with the proletariat and called for armed revolution – but the basic ideas of this conflict are what's significant. Think of it in regards to this… 'pureblood genocide', as we'll so put it."

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"Marx and Lenin observed that this conflict is a reoccurring pattern."

Charity is thinking, Macnair is confirmed in his assumptions that she is an intelligent witch. He sees the telltale look of horror and disgust creeping onto her face.

"What are you saying? What you're doing is expected – that it's _natural_ because it follows some bollocks pattern?"

"Yes, or at least, somewhat. Of course theories are imperfect in practical application, but that is generally what I'm trying to get at."

"That's _disgusting_."

"Death is natural. Killing is natural. Or at least, it has become natural to human beings. We are the one species in the animal kingdom that kills the highest number of its own kind."

"It doesn't make it right."

Macnair laughs, startling Charity. He runs his fingers along the strap of his eye-patch again, they travel upwards and skim through his jet hair.

"This isn't about right or wrong, Charity. Instincts rarely condescend to one or the other."

"The muggles have never exterminated us."

Macnair lifts an eyebrow, and while the gesture is innocuous, Charity flinches.

"What would you call the Inquisition?"

"They never killed any of us."

"Only because they did not have the power to. The intent was there. Their persecution also led us to flee into hiding. Three-quarters of the Ministry of Magic is devoted to ensuring our society is kept secret. Exile, to put it plainly, we have been driven to exile. We may be too arrogant to admit it, but the muggles have made us their proletariat for some time."

Her voice is laced with contempt, "So what are you calling your actions? Revenge? Justice?"

"No."

He says this so softly that she is taken aback again.

"No, I don't see our war as a matter of right or wrong, justice or entitlement."

He eases back into his chair, a hand massaging the skin underneath his eyes. He is showing signs of weariness and it is the first time he has allowed her to see any vulnerability, however slight.

"What do you see it as?" She whispers.

He is silent for so long she thinks he is refusing to answer. But he finally removes his hand from his eyes and responds, "As a pattern. As a role. I am merely fulfilling the role I was meant to play. Everyone is. Some just believe in it more fervently than others."

"And your role is as part of the exterminating power?"

"Yes."

"You could always change… "

He quirks a half-smile at her, "No, I couldn't. Not anymore than you could join the ranks of the Dark Lord."

He swirls the remaining dregs of his mead and quickly downs them.

"It is not the muggles' time. They have become the proletariat. It is _our_ time. We have become the bourgeois."

Charity makes a small noise of distress in her throat. Macnair ignores her.

"But that will change as well. There will be another group to overtake us and the pattern will continue."

"I hope it's the Order," She spits.

"It very well may be, but think now, Charity. If the Order's side is the next to come into power – what group will overpower them?"

"More Death Eaters?"

"Maybe, but I don't think so. There will probably be discord within your own ranks and a group will break off and everything will start again. I'm just telling you to be prepared when brother fights against brother."

"Never. That will never happen."

"That's how the Death Eaters came into being. What do you think we were before this?"

Charity stares at him with horror.

"Have you forgotten us? Was it so long ago when once we were all kin? But no matter… it is history."

"I bet you're just twisting all these theories to fit your liking," she says bitterly.

"Maybe, but how can you disprove anything if you haven't read any of these books?"

She shrinks into her seat.

"You're not far off from what you condemn, ignorant witch. You want to save the muggles, but you know next to nothing about them. So what if you know they use electricity and the underground and telephones? How do they think? What questions occupy them – what, _what_ do they struggle against? What do they fight for? What do they _dream_ of?"

She stares agape and is about to stammer a protest before he interrupts her.

"If you do not know, if you do not even want to know, then you're just as elitist as anyone else. Comfortable and secure in your magic and loathe to give that up. I saw the look on your face when you had to snap your wand."

She starts to cry again, clutching her abused scalp with tortured hands. Her eyes are bloodshot and he can see she's at her wits end with exhaustion.

"W-what are you accusing me of? P-Please, leave me alone. I – can you blame me… ?"

"Shh… it's all right, Charity. Don't answer, you'll say something foolish."

Macnair stands up and takes her glass from her. She has been clutching onto it during their entire exchange, forgetting it was even there. There is still some pale gold liquid left.

"My extension of civility expires once you finish your drink. I suggest you set it aside and have a nap. You can finish the mead after you sleep."

She eyes him suspiciously again, but he vacates and gestures to his chair, moving a respectable distance away. She looks at her glass nervously, now afraid of the liquid, and her time of mercy, running out.

"What about the other Death Eaters?"

He doesn't answer until she situates herself in his chair and makes herself comfortable.

"They won't come in, not while I'm in the room. The Dark Lord is usually very good about giving me as much time as I need to complete a task properly. I have a certain autonomy, even under someone else's rule."

"Do you like it?"

Macnair stands by the window. He is silent for a moment before responding, "Go to sleep."

She settles back into the chair, curling up into a ball. It takes her fifteen minutes to fall asleep, she fidgets and stirs, but exhaustion finally wins over. She relaxes enough in sleep to hang her legs over the arm of the chair and her breathing is light.

When Charity wakes the room is still dark. Macnair is standing by the window. He has removed his eye-patch; it hangs between his fingertips. His left eye is sealed shut with scar tissue. He has an open jar of salve on the windowsill and is lightly rubbing it onto the dead skin. If he notices her watching him he doesn't make the slightest indication. Once his ministrations are complete, he replaces the patch over his eye and smoothes some hair out of his face.

He glances over at her, politely curious, but doesn't say a word and doesn't move. She observes him quietly from above the back of the chair.

"You have such an appreciation for muggles and their philosophy. I don't know how you can reconcile that with… well, with all _this_. Being a Death Eater, following You-Know-Who… you're not like them."

He remains still, almost as if he hasn't heard her. Her mind has already wandered by the time he responds, "I have a name."

She stares at him stunned.

"Perhaps you could address me by it instead of 'You' or 'You Death Eaters'".

"What is it?"

"Walden."

She feels a spark of hope flutter in her chest. "Why did you choose to join the Death Eaters, Walden? Could it have been because of your family?"

"It was a matter of economics."

"Economics?"

A half-smirk graces his lips, "Philosophy will only take you so far."

"Do the other Death Eaters know you read muggle philosophy?"

Macnair shrugs. "Probably not. They don't bother to ask."

"Wouldn't it get you into trouble?"

"Perhaps."

He walks over to sit in the hard chair she initially occupied. She doesn't flinch away from his presence.

"Why did you start reading muggle philosophy, Walden?"

"A muggle man gave me a book during a raid. Voltaire. He thought, perhaps it would do me some good. He also begged me to give it to his son as a dying memento."

"Did you?"

"His son had already been killed."

Her face darkens, "You wouldn't have given it to the son even if he were alive."

"No, I wouldn't have. It was foolish of the old man to ask. Who makes requests of their executioner?"

She glares at him and then down at her drink. There is still liquid in it, still a time of mercy left. He can tell she is biting back angry words, and chuckles, "You still think I'm a monster?"

It takes her awhile to reply, "No. No, I don't."

"Wizards don't have philosophy texts or studies – have you noticed that?"

Charity nods dumbly.

"Do you know why that is?"

"Are you asking or are you going to tell me?"

He chuckles at her sharp retort.

"It's because we have magic."

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"Muggles are in fear for their souls. They don't know what it is, if it exists, how important it is and what to do with it. So they ask questions, they think, they try to come up with answers.

"But wizards, we have our magic. We have proof we can see and touch and experience that there is something other than flesh and blood housed within our bodies. It makes us lazy and take our existence for granted. We do not wonder. We do not ask questions."

His face darkens while he speaks and Charity can see this is something that has bothered him, and that he keeps close to his heart.

Her voice is hushed, "That sounds almost anti-pureblood, you know."

He looks over at her as if noticing she was there for the first time. He smirks slightly. "I can't be anti-pureblood. I _am_ pureblood. I do not hate myself."

"There are pureblood families working with the Order… "

"Aah, here is where economics come into play."

He gets up from his seat and starts to walk around her chair. His movements are slow and seemingly absent-minded, but she can feel the purposeful threat in his body language every time he passes her. Her delusions of safety are quickly vanishing.

"I am from a very wealthy family, Charity. I have lived very comfortably up until now, and I wish to continue to live comfortably. I am in that small percentage of the rich whose assets are protected by family name, while the lower classes are squeezed of all their galleons because they haven't the same security. It is not in my best interests to be generous to those who would upset the very system that benefits me."

"But surely your wealth couldn't all be drained away – you'd still love prosperously - "

"I admit, this system is doomed to falter some time, but it well suits me for now. That is one of the reasons I support the Dark Lord. I'm protecting my way of living."

"So this is all about money to you?" she hisses venomously.

He stops his pacing when he is directly in front of her. He can see her hackles rising, as she feels cornered.

"I said: I made my choice to protect my way of living. That extends far past large estates, beautiful manors and a plethora of gold in Gringotts."

He leans in, left hand gripping the back of her chair, his nose almost touching hers. His eyes glisten and his grin looks animalistic. She can see his right hand reaching for the knife he keeps in his boot.

She looks up at him wildly, betrayed. "B-But – "

"What is it that I do for the Dark Lord, Charity? Hmm?"

"P-Please… "

"What did I do to you in this room? What was my allotted task?"

"T-Tortured me – "

"That's right," his voice is almost cooing, "and do you think I do it because someone orders me? No, oh no - heavens me - what a naïve thought."

The knife is in his hand now, snaking its way up to her face. Her breath hitches in her throat and she begins to hyperventilate.

"I enjoy my work very, very much. It gives me great pleasure and great joy. It's an art, and it's what makes me happy. Now, do you really think there's a place for a person like me on the side of the Order?"

She splutters, unable to say anything, and feeling her gorge rise. He can see her despair and sighs, contentedly, fingers flexing around the knife handle. Its point is just tickling her eyeball.

"No, I didn't think so. Finish your drink, Charity. All of it. I've grown tired of being kind."

* * *

FIN


End file.
